The Sketch
by Crawler
Summary: It was just a picture I drew! I mean, come on, the parchment was wasted, I couldn't write my essay on it! I didn't know he was going to pick it up! Harry?


This was just a random idea that popped into my head.  It has a pairing, Harry/any student you want.  I even purposely left out gender.  This way slash haters can't yell at me, and neither can slash lovers.  You like Harry/Draco, fine, Draco's the person who's POV this is.  Prefer Ginny/Harry?  Ginny's telling the story.

Here's a challenge, if you chose to accept.  Write your own continuation.  Harry/whoever you want.  Best continuation author gets a story.

I don't own them.  I wish I owned the sketch.  I'll return them both to their box, just like I found them, maybe a bit scratched up, but sometimes things can't be helped.

This is also kinda a celebration fic, OotP out on SATURDAY!  Can't wait!  Because of that, I see Harry as a 5th year in this story, but he can really be just about any age you want, provided he attends Hogwarts still.

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**_The Sketch_**

It starts off as a simple curl, just an accidental stroke of my quill.  I mutter a curse and make to crumple the parchment – it's ruined, I can't write my essay on it, but my hand pauses just moments away from destroying it.  I sit back in my seat and pause, studying the paper, my hands resting flat beside it.  Suddenly I lean forward and grab my quill.  I hurriedly dip it in the ink, but I stop again.  The tip hovers inches from the parchment, the ink gathering at the tip to form a perfect drop.  I watch it fall, landing near the curl and soaking deep into the parchment.  Now I have an inkblot and a whorl to study.  Closing my eyes, all I can see are those two dark blemishes on the pale parchment.  My hand moves and my eyes fly open as I begin to draw, pouring my heart out onto the paper.

The curl becomes my hand, clutching at his dark hair, formed partially by the inkblot.  His face, my face, there is no difference.  I meld us together in a passionate kiss, have him clutching at my shoulders, my back, drawing me up to him.  He's much taller now, he had a growth spurt over the summer.  I'm not used to looking up at him so much, it's unsettling.  In turn, I'm clutching at his hair, his robes, holding him to me, desperate.  My eyes are closed, his are open.  He watches me, watches as I surrender to him.  I make him twist his lips just a bit, he's smirking as he kisses me, knowing that I would give him every last thing he asks for, if just to prolong this moment a minute longer.

My real hand moves quickly, sketching in our robes, impeccably neat, save where we clutch at each other.  They are indistinguishable from each other, even more than our faces.

All of a sudden I pull back, panting, as if he had really been kissing me, drawing every last breath from my body.  I stare at the picture, shocked.  Why had I done that?  Why had I poured my heart out for everyone to see?  Despite my fears, I can't help but smile.  My sketches always look so real, my art teacher tells me.  I should keep practicing.  This was my best ever.  There is only one flaw.

A harsh stroke from my quill forms the scar on his forehead.  Now it is complete.  Now it is perfect.

"What's that?  Let me see!"  A girl approaches me.  I quickly snatch the parchment away from her prying eyes, crumpling it in my hands.

"Nothing.  My essay.  It's bad, I need to redo it."  I throw the parchment into the fireplace before leaving the library.  I purposely miss.  She doesn't notice.  I feign some excuse, I left my bag, and I leave her and return.

It's gone.  My sketch is gone!  I fall into my old seat and nonchalantly bump my bag – I really had forgotten it.  It spills its contents onto the floor, and I can pick them up as I try to find my sketch.

Someone pauses by me and hands me a piece of parchment.  I look at it.  It's my sketch.  "You forgot this."  I look up.  It's _him_!  I fight down my panic and shake my head.

"It's not mine."

  
How can I lie like that?  To him?  How can I lie when he's holding the parchment _I_ had crumpled and thrown at the fire, holding the parchment that has a picture of him and _me_ in an intimate embrace on it?

"It's not?"  He sounds surprised, studying the parchment again.  "It's really good."

"Like I'd ever make something like that."  I try to sound scornful, to make him think that idea would never enter my mind, like I don't think of him that way, could never think of him that way.  "Probably just some talented first year or something."

"But why you?  This _is_ you, isn't it?"  He's pointing to the picture of me.  I stand up, clutching my bag tightly to me, as if offered some form of protection between us.

"How should I know?  I didn't draw it.  Maybe it's the artist."

"But it looks older, looks like you.  It can't be a first year."

"It's a black and white picture.  It could be anyone, or anyone pretending they're older."  I glance back at the parchment, doubting I'd ever get it back.  "I need to go, I have homework."

"Why don't you just do it here?"

"Because . . ." I'm floundering for an excuse.  "I have a study date.  Outside.  The weather's nice, but I'm late."  Without another word I turn on my heel and leave, trying to seem like I'm calm and collected.

He doesn't believe me, about the picture.

So why does he just let me go?

And why does he keep the sketch? 

~Crawler, who's praying ff.net starts working soon!

And who's also REALLY SORRY for FORGETTING to UPDATE _The Founders_ in AGES because she's been REALLY BUSY.


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